Taking the Fifth(47)

“He told you that?”

“He said it had something to do with cocaine, lots of it, and the theater. But that’s all he said. He wouldn’t tell me any more. He said it would be too dangerous for me to know more than that. I was very proud of him and glad to help him too.”

“Help?”

“I kept some things for him. He sent them to me, and I put them in my safety deposit box in Bellingham.”

“What kind of things?”

“Envelopes. I didn’t look inside them. I’m not a prying mother. He just said he wanted me to keep them in case…in case…” She broke off.

I was impatient, but I managed to keep quiet until she regained her composure and could go on. “In case something like this would…”

For several minutes she sobbed brokenly. Finally, she got up, walked over to the dresser, and looked at herself in the mirror. Carefully she wiped a rivulet of mascara off her cheek.

It occurred to me that Grace Simms Morris was careful to maintain her appearance under even the most trying circumstances. I wondered if other kinds of appearances were equally as important to her.

“Did you know Jonathan Thomas?” I asked.

“Of course I knew Jon. He was a wonderful young man. It was so tragic what happened to him.”

I thought for a moment that she was referring to his murder. She soon disabused me of that notion. “I can’t understand why they don’t keep better track of the people who donate blood these days, but I guess it could happen to anybody.”

“People who donate blood? You mean Jonathan Thomas contracted AIDS through contaminated blood?”

Grace Simms Moms gave me an arch look. “Why, of course. How else would he have gotten it?”

How else indeed!

“Jon and Rich were very devoted to one another,” she continued. “Such good friends.”

“Friends?” I asked.

“The very best of friends,” she assured me openly. “From the time they met in college. Why, that must have been ten years ago now. Time seems to fly these days, doesn’t it?”

I nodded, but I didn’t answer. Talking with Mrs. Morris was like stepping into quicksand. If Richard Dathan Morris hadn’t seen fit to come out of the closet with his mother while he was alive, I didn’t want to be the one to bring him out now that he was dead. I didn’t have much respect for the dead, but I did for the living.

“You said he sent you envelopes to hold for safekeeping. When did he start doing that?”

She stopped to think for a moment. “Several months ago, I don’t know exactly. I’ll be able to tell for sure when I get them out. The envelopes all have postmarks on them.”

“I’m sure you’re not the prying type, Mrs. Morris, but mothers have ways of knowing things, even things they’re not supposed to know. Don’t you have some idea about what might be in those envelopes?”

She smiled. “You mean like knowing what’s in your Christmas present before you ever unwrap it?”

“Yes.”

“You’re right. Rich said that he never could surprise me. I don’t think he would have sent me drugs. That would have been illegal. I think he sent me information, things he didn’t want to fall into the wrong hands. But I don’t know who to give them to now.”

“Did you tell that man at the DEA about them?”

“Mr. Wainwright?” I nodded.

“Certainly not. Why should I? He was rude to me. I’d show them to you, if you wanted me to.”

“What exactly did this Mr. Wainwright say to you?”

“It wasn’t so much what he said as how he acted. He treated me like I was a crazy old woman who didn’t know what I was talking about. He said he was certain there was no one here in Seattle working as a CI.” She paused. “Do you know what that means?”

“A cooperating individual,” I explained. “An informant.”

She pulled herself up straight. “Why, that louse!” she exclaimed. “Imagine him calling my son that. An informant. Rich was a hero, Detective Beaumont. He wasn’t an informant.”

I didn’t take the trouble to explain the finer points of law enforcement to Mrs. Grace Simms Morris. I stood up and handed her one of my cards. “If I came to Bellingham next week, would you be willing to show me what’s in the safety deposit box?”

“Certainly, Detective Beaumont. I’d be happy to. You mean you’ll come even if the DEA won’t?”

I nodded and her face crumpled. “Thank you,” she said.

“Would you like me to try talking to the DEA for you?” I asked.

“If you think it would help,” she said.